


Facets

by coatsandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, First Kiss, M/M, PTSD, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatsandjumpers/pseuds/coatsandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is not a pensive man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facets

John Watson is not a pensive man. It’s not as though John is stupid or simple-minded. He knows more than most people, and he’ll take the time to think things through. Overall, however, he wouldn’t consider himself pensive. He’s not the kind who will sit back and reflect on how he thinks his life is. John is more a man of action, one who relies on his instincts. Years of war gave him the ability to make difficult decisions in only seconds, but it’s the world’s only consulting detective who gave him the opportunity to make those intense, do-or-die decisions in his adrenaline-starved civilian life. It’s probably good, John thinks, that he prefers action to painful deliberation. The action of pulling a trigger with pin-point accuracy to save the life of a man he barely knew formed the foundation of the newest and best chapter in John’s life. Deliberation, hesitation, could have lost him the man his universe now revolves around. Besides, it’s good that John doesn’t like to reflect on difficult topics too much, because recently his more-than-friendly thoughts have been focused on someone most people have less-than-friendly opinions of.

John Watson is not handsome. Not strictly speaking, at least. His greyish blond hair is not movie-star standard. His lined face is comforting and sweet but not striking. At his age, he absolutely refuses to try for those ridiculously muscled male bodies he sees on the tabloids at the store (he rather thinks having that kind of body at any age is implausible). Combined with his love for loose-fitting knitted jumpers, John can’t for the life of him imagine why he’s always had rather unprecedented success with the ladies (not that he’s complaining). Other people, however, especially a cold-hearted, high-functioning sociopath, understand why. John is compelling, not in the way a lantern draws moths to a fiery death, but in the way a warm fire draws people and creates a quiet, comfortable atmosphere. John is stoic, steady, stable in the way a hot cup of tea is. John is home itself compacted into a small but sturdy form. And that’s enough, a certain consulting detective thinks.

John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is not a civilian. The light of modern London seems as though it reveals all, but John knows a war rages in the shadows. This is not the war he knows. The sun, the dust, the humidity are all missing. Instead, there are only the grey clouds and the chill of London. Horrible water pressure and uncomfortable sleeping conditions are no longer an issue. This is a war that is taking place in the middle of the modern first-world. There are no brazen skirmishes filled with bullets and gunfire from inexperienced soldiers from the opposing side. This is a war fought in the dark, both in the dark underbelly of London and the darkness of the mind. The opposing side is an unseen enemy who wreaks havoc to play games. Chaos reigns, and John can’t help but worry, because this is a war that can’t be won with weapons, can’t be won with brawn. This is a war played on the chessboard of the minds of the most brilliant men in London. John knows he is not one of those men. But John Watson is, and always will be, a soldier. This is not the war he knows, but he loads his gun and follows the man he trusts the most into battle.

John Watson, confirmed bachelor, is not a consulting detective’s boyfriend. It’s not as though watching his insane flatmate deduce everything from family relationships to smoking habits makes John feel like the synapses in his own brain are sparking with electricity, more alive than ever. It’s not as though hearing those shivering notes on the violin make John feel like he, instead of the instrument’s strings, are trembling. It’s not as though John’s best friend is like pure adrenaline that makes John feel larger than life itself. It’s not as though any of these notions are true, but after watching a curly-haired, coat-wearing detective jump into the freezing Thames and not resurface for a good three minutes, John can’t bring himself to care. In seconds measured by the rapid pounding of his heart, John dives into the water to follow the man he has followed so many times before. Later, a criminal in handcuffs and a detective safe underneath a garishly orange blanket, John breathes a sigh of relief. His mind still frozen from terror and the shock of the icy water, he feels no hesitation in pressing his lips to those of the man he can’t bear to lose.

John Watson is _definitely not_ a consulting detective’s boyfriend. As the kiss deepens, regardless of the police and medics, John feels no need to change that statement. Boyfriend feels like such a fickle, temporary term. Boyfriend doesn’t capture the forever that stretches out in front of them. No word can truly capture the trust, the confidence, the complete and utter belief in each other. Language is not capable of producing a word that shows everything from the passion filled nights shared between them to the easy silences that sometimes fall upon the two. John rather likes the thought that they’re indescribable; he thinks it’s fitting.

John Watson is not perfect. The scar on his left shoulder is evidence enough of that. John hates the thing. He considers it a blemish, as it’s certainly not pretty. More than that, it serves as a cruel reminder of a darker time, a time when he didn’t belong. It’s the reason John returned before he was ready, hearing gunfire in everyday noises and seeing enemies where there were none. His detective, however, seems awed by the white bulges of tissue. For him, the scar is not the beginning of one of the worst periods of John’s life, but rather the event that brought John to him. For him, that scar is the symbol of his salvation, for without that bullet, he would never have found John. And he can’t bear to think of where he might be without John.

John Watson is not a weak man. But when he watches his detective plummet to his death, he staggers, disbelieving and disoriented. Without his center, John knows he is lost again. As too-bright crimson stains the dull grey of the pavement, John can feel his world going blank, his mind going numb. Horror, shock, tragedy, none of it is enough to encompass the enormity, the magnitude of the act. This man was indescribable in life and indescribable in death. The gloved hands of nurses reach out for him. John faintly realizes he’s mumbling incoherently, but it doesn’t matter. Why would it matter when the only thing that was truly, truly important is gone?

John Watson is not a coward. In the beginning of it all, when his world narrows down to a gun and a target, John feels no fear. The two windows and the distance spanning the two buildings don’t matter at all. There is no time to consider the consequences, the repercussions. The police will probably have to get involved, and maybe even the courts, but right now John refuses to be daunted. His finger pulls the trigger and a man is dead.

John Watson is not an eloquent man. He has a very famous blog, to be sure, but he doesn’t bother with fancy writing and styled phrasing. John writes in the same way he goes through life: simply. If he’s content with a cuppa, his flatmate, and the cases, he figures his writing should be content with his good grammar and his not-terrible phrasing. The words don’t contain some deeper meaning or theme. They’re there to say what they’re meant to say. They’re there to tell a story. To most people, that story is actually several stories, cases really. They’re exciting, entertaining, full of bodies and blood, murder and money. But to John, the words tell a different story, a story between the lines. To John, the words tell the story of two men falling in love.

John Watson is not an outwardly emotional man. Yet when his long asked for miracle comes true, the stinging in the back of his eyes is there, outmatched only by the stinging of the wound on his heart. Years, he thinks, it’s been years. And as he feels his heart contract, as he feels himself be found all over again, John coils his arm back and launches it forward, placing a much-deserved mark on the face of his returned center of the universe. His mind is a mix of emotions, pent-up grief, anger, and relief chief among them. John reasons that he shouldn’t try to describe what he’s feeling, because his wonderful, horrible, completely indescribable everything has returned, and language never makes much sense around him.

John Watson is not an ordinary man. However, his quiet demeanor and average appearance seem to suggest otherwise. His coat-wearing companion, who seems to effortlessly draw attention, should define him. John should be unnoticeable behind the flamboyant drama of his flatmate. And yet, John persists. Like a heartbeat, John remains a steady, constant force, sometimes quiet, sometimes forgotten, but always present. John Watson is not an ordinary man, because every day he succeeds in doing the extraordinary. He serves as not only the heartbeat, but also the heart of the only other man alive who can be as extraordinary as he is. After all, the head of Sherlock Holmes would be nothing without the heart of John Watson.


End file.
